


trade his guns for love

by bountifulsilences



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Baggage, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bountifulsilences/pseuds/bountifulsilences
Summary: “Are you ever going to stop running?”“This road trip is for you.”“Is that what you’re calling it now?”Silence. He didn’t have a decent reply for the critique.“Everything stops eventually Steve, don’t burn yourself out before you reach the end.”





	trade his guns for love

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: brief mention of suicidal tendencies when steve and bucky are discussing whether bucky is glad steve pursued him.
> 
> all mistakes are my own. hope you enjoy this nonetheless.

“You’ve changed.”

Bucky’s voice was soft. The gruff grated to leave behind a smooth silvery sound which seemed nothing like the man he was, but the man he used to be. Tightening his grip on the wheel, Steve waited a breath before relaxing his fingers. Change was a consequence of action, and he had done plenty dead or alive. 

“We all have, it’s life,” he replied.

“No. No, we haven’t. Not really.”

*

They stopped at a gas station. Bucky volunteered to pay for the gas and gather some food after he took a leak. Agreeable, Steve let him go and eventually sat on a picnic table near their truck. In the distance, the sun ascended.

“You used to love sunrises,” Bucky commented when he returned, throwing a bar of chocolate onto the table. “Guess it isn’t the same anymore.”

Plucking the bar, he glanced at the wrapper. Milky Way. A snack for later perhaps.

“Not a lot is.”

*

“You’re a dick, you know that?”

He did. In fact, he was under the impression he was nothing but. Scent tangled with aggression and muscles throbbing with adrenaline, his body was prepared for an imminent fight that would ultimately led to his collective demise. Mind, soul and body.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.”

Bucky sat on the bed that belonged to him, because there were two beds rather than one. They weren’t sharing, they were segregated, a hefty distance between them despite being within arm’s reach. Different. They had changed and so had their needs. That’s what he told himself anyway.

“You’re right, I’m not.”

A sigh. Something that had been searched for and found in the deepest sea. Steve stared at the TV, not seeing anything. 

“Lying comes easy now?”

“Had to happen sometime.”

“Didn’t have to be like this.”

It couldn’t have been any other way. Sincerity didn’t win wars, deception did. He’d learnt that the hard way.

*

The diner’s menu was vast and alluring, food that Steve had yet to try listed on the paper. Scrutinising it for a few hurried moments, he finally placed it on the table and gazed at an unoccupied seat whilst Bucky decided.

“You ready to order?”

“More or less.”

“What you getting?”

What he always had. Two toast with a black coffee. Food provided sustenance, not pleasure. He couldn’t have it any other way. 

“Punishments for the wrongly accused are illegal,” Bucky said after a hard minute.

“Good thing I’m as criminal as they come.”

*

The beach was wet. Rain had pelted on the sand hours prior and drenched the land, softening its crystalline edges. 

“Still scared of the ocean?” he asked, feet lost in the water and face audience to the waves.

Even though he couldn’t see him, Steve shrugged. His relationship was as simple as it was complicated: he didn’t know. It just depended on the day and his mood.

“Yeah, I get that.” Gentle waves coddled Bucky. “When you have a laundry list of traumas you get tired of being scared of everything. Gotta become nothing again at point.”

He wasn’t going to reply, figured the response didn’t signify one. But he did, nevertheless. Lips curved to spew the language his body had long ceased.

“A drunk uncle at a party. Sometimes he’s funny, other times he’s just a pain in the ass, and sometimes he’s nothing at all.”

Bucky chuckled. “Just a bunch of Uncle Berry’s.”

Barely visible, Steve cracked a smile. Just a bunch of uncle Berry’s.

*

“That’s the first night you’ve slept since we left,” Bucky commented, whilst they ate breakfast.

Black coffee, two toast. Steve took a tentative sip.

“Exhaustion catches up to everyone eventually.”

His companion frowned. “I would have driven if you told me.”

“Would you have liked it?”

“No.”

Steve nodded. Carefully, he bit into his buttered bread. “I drive.”

*

The first time he laughs, it was oddly enough at an arcade. They were playing pac-man and listening to 70’s music from the speakers overhead. Steve was having the time of his life. From a task so simple, came immeasurable joy.

Bucky stopped talking. Stared at him as he navigated his character through the maze. He registered it from the corner of his eyes but didn’t say anything, knowing if it’s important enough, Bucky would say something himself.

“I haven’t seen you laugh since I got here.”

It was an exaggeration. Steve didn’t call him out on it. “I haven’t had the reason too.”

“Pac-man good enough?”

The company wasn’t too bad either, but he’d sooner burn his tongue than burden his friend with those feelings. Instead, he countered, “pac-man is rigged.”

“You love it anyway.”

He smiled at the omission. “It’s wormed its way into this old man’s heart.”

*

“Radio silence is boring.”

“Then play something.”

“I want to know what kind of music you listen to.”

Steve thought back to a notebook with scrawls of adventure and artists whose voices were promised to excel. He recalled Sam and his Marvin Gaye album, as well as Natasha with her classic 80’s playlist. What they played, he listened. It’s not like he paid enough attention to hear.

“Nothing,” he admitted.

“Not even Michael Jackson?”

He shook his head, praying that the conversation would shift from his failures to the road ahead. Bucky cleared his throat.

“Time to introduce you to the world of MJ. Sit tight cause you’re in for one hell of a ride.”

*

“Are you serious, Steve? Are you fucking serious?”

The injuries were rough but manageable. Overstaying their visit in the motel for a couple of days would help him heal readily enough. Agonising it would be, but the pain was temporary, and it couldn’t last forever, no matter how deep the scar went. 

“It was me or him. Easy choice if you ask me.” 

Bucky snapped, “I didn’t, so keep it to yourself.”

“I’ll heal,” he promised- reminded him. His body maintained no wounds, they all became memories that blemished his mind and not his skin. 

“That excuse didn't work then, and it won’t work now either,” Bucky told him, dabbing the blood clear from his injuries. “Just shut up and let me work, you’ve said all you had to say already.”

“Bucky-”

“Steve,” he interjected, voice sharp and resolutely tired. “Just...nothing.” 

Justice was a funny component in his life. Doing the right thing ended with sadness in the 30’s and it ended in frustration now. Steve was always going to perturb Bucky. So why the hell did he chose to stay?

*

“What did you say?”

“Steve, drop it, come on-”

“No. I asked you pal, what did you say?”

The man in front of him trembled, his fist loose and void of the energy required to swing. It was satisfying to see him cower, it was what he deserved. Clenching his hands into a fist and pushing out of Bucky’s hold, Steve glared at him. 

“Go home and think twice before saying some shit like that again. Next time, someone might not be so understanding.”

Refusing to give up ( _would you just give it a rest already? You have nothing to prov-_ ) the man sneered, “that’s all big guy? I call you a bitch and all you say is-”

Blood smeared across Steve’s knuckles and fingers. The man’s fingers soaked as they gravitated to his nose, eyes wide. It wasn’t broken, but the bruising would be excruciating. Beside him, his partner was rigid and silent. 

“Turns out I’m not that understanding either.”

*

He wasn’t a lot of things, it turned out, but he was still Steve Rogers.

*

His phone beeped. Incoming text, probably Natasha or Sam, he wasn’t sure. Hands glued to the wheel; he drove leisurely. 

“You not going to check? It might be something important,” Bucky said. 

Turning to him, eyes empty and face blank, he asked, “like what?”

“I don’t know. They’re your friends.”

It was nothing important. Just enquiries of his health and how he felt. His answer never changed; they must have got the point by now. 

“It’s nothing important.”

It wasn’t. He didn’t deserve the concern.

*

“Are you ever going to stop running?”

“This road trip is for you.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now?”

Silence. He didn’t have a decent reply for the critique.

“Everything stops eventually Steve, don’t burn yourself out before you reach the end.”

*

“Do you still love me?” he asked suddenly, staring at the murky ceiling as Bucky watched a show on the neighbouring bed. 

The air shifted suddenly with electricity, but it suffered a quick death. “I never stopped.”

“So, why the second bed?”

An answer was hoped for but not expected, they were both reserved from the world and that included each other. He wouldn’t be surprised if Bucky chose to ignore him and never respond, it wasn't the first time either of them had done.

The tv was silenced and room doused in black paint. “I don’t like being touched.”

“I do.”

_I need your loving touch to make me feel human once more._

Nothing. He closed his eyes and breathed. He received more than he thought he was going to, he could accept it and move on. Bucky didn’t owe anyone anything, certainly not him. But that didn’t stop him from sliding into Steve’s bed and arranging them, so he hugged Steve from the back, securely. Holding a breath, he waited.

“Don’t touch me with your hands or your legs. I’ll touch you.”

Nodding, he sighed. He only received what Bucky was prepared to give, and Bucky gave his world. It was infinitely more than he deserved, yet he didn’t argue. Sleep came swift and easy that night.

*

They started sleeping in the same bed after that, a new routine forged. _Don’t touch me,_ requested Bucky. So, Steve carefully manoeuvred his limbs to make sure he didn’t.

*

Cold. The air was chill, and the night as long, the end nowhere in sight and they were watching an empty sky of all things. Riveting, for a Wednesday night.

“Did you ever feel like running away?”

“All the time,” he responded honestly. “I wanted to fight the war, not become a superhero. I wanted to help, not become a monkey again.”

A car soared past and they cancelled it, ears dedicated to their whispers.

“Is that what this is?” Bucky said in a low voice, hand tentatively scrambling to hold Steve’s. “Are we running away?”

Swallowing the words that he wanted to project rather than should, he shook his head. “We’re healing.”

“Is that why you ignore Sam and Natasha?”

Steve sharply turned his head and looked at Bucky, surprised at being so evidently called out. Gently, Bucky watched him, eyes kind and caring, a familiar gaze.

“I text them back. Eventually.”

“You don’t owe me this,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “I don’t need an explanation. But maybe it’s time you consider what you owe yourself and them. What we owe to one another.”

The next day, he rang Sam and forced himself to talk for ten minutes before hanging up. Natasha was a text away and on an assignment. Staring at Bucky, he felt ashamed seeing the pride in his eyes and slithered into the driver's seat, ready to leave. Despite it all, it felt nice talking to Sam after all that time.

*

“Do you wish I was gone? Or that I left you when you wanted the space?” Steve asked him, eyes invested in the road.

From his peripheral vision, he saw Bucky’s head turn to him. He stared for a while.

“No and. No. If you didn’t pursue me, I would have had no reason to live. You made me curious enough about my identity to not pop a bullet.”

Instinctively, he tightened his grip on the wheel hearing the crude way Bucky spoke. “Why not now? You can leave whenever you want to.”

“Exactly, I can leave whenever I want to, but the thing is. I don’t want to.”

“But why? I mean nothing to you.”

“Steve, if there is one thing on this planet that I would die trying to cherish or protect, it’s you. You’re the air that I breathe and the electricity that keeps my heart beating.”

It wasn’t an ‘I love you’, not by any means. But that didn’t matter. It was so much more than that. And so much better. 

Releasing the tension from his fingers, he left the embrace he had on the wheel and stretched them, relief coursing through him. “I’m not a thing.”

“Then stop acting like one. You know better than to think foolish things. Or then again maybe you don’t, you always were the stupid one out of the two of us.”

Chuckling, he shook his head. “I carried the stupid which you couldn’t, it was a joint effort.”

“You say that as though you didn’t get your ass beat every other day. Sit down Rogers, you can’t hide your true self from me.”

And no, he thought, no I can’t.

*

“Will we ever stop? Or go back at least?” 

Steve stopped flicking through the channels. “Why? Do you want to?”

“This isn’t about me, it’s about yo-“

“Do you want to?”

“Steve, this- “

“Do you want to?” he repeated, pressing the words hard to get his point across.

Bucky fell into a silence that alleviated with a sigh. “I don’t.”

He hummed.

“We’ll continue then.”

*

“We’re allowed to be happy,” Bucky said suddenly, the mountainous escape submerging his words in silence. “We did all we had to do and more, we get a chance to be better.”

Steve’s hand was held by Bucky, cocooned in the warmth of his palm. Squeezing it, he didn’t reply. Bucky did, that was non-negotiable. But he didn’t. Men like him, they didn’t get the happy ending they wanted.

(Was Bucky not his happy ending?)

“You don’t believe me, do you.” It wasn’t projected as a question, nor a statement that required an answer. It was simply said, as all things could ever be. 

“After everything you’ve been through-”

“No, I’m talking about you Steve. The only person you forget deserves the care you so generously give to the world.”

“I don’t.”

“Is this what you’ve become? Your own enemy?”

“The truth won’t stay hidden forever, sometimes you have to accept what’s staring you in the face.”

Bucky scoffed. “I’ll make you happy, whether you want to be or not.”

“You’ll die trying.”

“Well, I needed a good cause to send me on my merry way. This is the best I could have ever gotten.”

*

He smiled. Another one for the road. 

“You liking the view?” Purposely, he flexed his muscles and felt them bulge in his shirt.

An affirmative sound travelled from behind. “Looking real good Steve, like a fucking dream.”

“Eyes on the prize Barnes.”

“Already looking at it.”

Turning to look, Steve saw him looking at him.

*

“A march?”

“Yes.”

“For?”

“Equality. Climate change. Rights. Everything,” he listed.

“You want to encourage change,” Bucky deduced, humming contemplatively.

He swallowed. “No one will recognise us, but I want to go.”

Truth was he knew Bucky would opt out, too many bodies, large crowds, and dangers he couldn’t predict surrounding him. But Steve had to go. Prove to himself that despite everything, good was coming. Bad would never remain unchallenged, there was always something (or someone) to eradicate it.

He wanted to be part of the bodies of change, if not as a Captain then as Steve. Surely, Bucky would understand that.

“Well, I am more than happy to stay in the car or drink some coffee while you do what you have to do.”

Have to do. Because it was never an option for him to say no. He had no choice but to comply.

“I won’t be long,” he promised, driving off the highway.

“You will, but it’s fine. You waited for me, I think it’s time for me to wait for you too, don’t you think?”

*

“How long have we been travelling?” he asked Bucky, knowing that he kept track of everything that they did or encountered, numbers and words scrambled in his journal.

Without missing a beat, he answered, “thirty-one days.”

He was reading a book, something he did often now. From the cover, Steve discerned that it was something by Stephen King. Horror. Apparently, Bucky liked it fictional.

“You having a good time, so far?” he questioned.

Faintly, he heard a huff and a smile. “Time of my life.”

Reference to a song. Steve knew what it was.

“Yeah. So am I.”

“Good. It was about time you let yourself breathe.”

And thinking about it he realised that he had been asphyxiating himself, preventing joy from entering his bloodstream by choosing to ignore the blessings he could count on his fingers. Swallowing, he nodded. It was about time after all.


End file.
